What Silence Brought
by Lialle
Summary: Grif has an unexpected trip. Insecurities are brought forth, and he learns what it's like to live as the man who gave him a second chance at life; with a few differences. Yep, you got it right, RvB. And Slash. S/G Grif/Simmons
1. Part I

The parts are short, but so what. There are 13 parts altogether. This is cross-posted on LJ. I had trouble categorising it, so I left it as angst/general. What would you say for alternate reality? Supernatural? Sci-Fi? Gah.

* * *

**Part I**

Sometimes Red base was quiet; quieter than could ever be believed. Those rare times that the base was quiet only occurred on the days that it was empty. Today, the base housed only one person; Grif. He sat alone at the kitchen table, swirling a straw around a glass of chocolate milk with a dazed expression on his face. He was silent; he sat listening his breathing, conscious of the fact that those lungs expanding and deflating in his chest belonged—or use to—to Simmons. Grif was conscious of the fact that a lot of his body was once part of Simmons; so conscious of the scars where flesh melded, conscious of the differing skin pigmentation, conscious that he wasn't... fully Grif. He sighed, shifting in his seat in restlessness until he gave up. Standing, Grif stretched and flexed, cracking his back. He made his way outside.

Grif stood, eyes adjusting to the sudden bright light that stung his eyes. He frowned, nodding his head in a lethargic manner before making his slow way up to the roof of the base. He was armour-less, but that fact didn't faze him. He hummed low in his chest; a single content sound as he lowered himself to the ground. The base was... good empty. Grif enjoyed the rare solitude; being around three other people for such an extended period of time in such a confined area could drive the best of us crazy—and he was no exception. They left a day ago to "scout" the blue base, all three of them. Grif was happy they left him behind, he could finally catch up on the sleep Simmons' whirring insides liked to keep him from. The sun brought colour to his cheeks, bleached his copper hair and reminded him of home.

Grif smiled, closing his heavy eyes, hands behind his head, and fell asleep in the warm sun.


	2. Part II

**Part II**

Grif groaned; his limbs felt sore and stiff. He tried to move, but found hands holding him down. A voice murmured in his ear, but he couldn't distinguish the words. He groaned again, shifting only to discover that flared the pain in his limbs. Grif gasped, eyes fluttering open only to be squeezed shut at the overload of bright, white light. A hand pushed hair back from his sweating forehead.

"Now Grif, don't try to move too much, you've been through quite the ordeal." These words froze Grif. He almost felt his heart stopping, the panic that roared through his veins. This was a dream. It _had_ to be. There was no way he could be revisiting the past... Grif took a shaky breath, slowly opening his eyes only to blink furiously until they adjusted. A headache bloomed behind his temples. He croaked out a question.

"Shhshshsh. It was really touch and go there for a while good buddy. But I did it! I pulled you through." Grif looked horrified at Donut, but Sarge and Simmons misinterpreted the gesture to be directed at the words their Pink comrade had said. He took another shuddering breath, gaze panning over towards his CO and other teammate. He closed his jaw and swallowed slow and deep, afraid to say anything. This was just a dream. He'd wake up soon, back on the roof of the base in the warm sun, alone, Donut, Sarge and Simmons far away from him. Maybe... maybe he'd be the same as he was before... He eyed Simmons, dread rising in him, blood rushing from his face as it dawned. Simmons... was... whole. Grif swallowed again, glancing down at his arm bellow the blanket that was thrown haphazardly across his body. His arm...

Taking a deep breath, he lifted the offending limb. It was... heavy, heavier than usually. He closed his eyes, shifting his leg. That was like lifting a log... He could feel his teams eyes on him. He glanced, unsure, in their direction. He coughed, hoping to clear his throat but it only brought more pain. Donut handed him a glass and he drank. After a moment, he tried to speak again.

"W-what ha—happened?" Everyone stiffened for a moment, unsure on how to answer.

"Well... you were behind the Warthog and... the tank... ran you over." Simmons hesitated in answering, wringing his hands—his perfect, pale hands—before him. Grif gulped. "Sarge, well... he... saved you. Did an excellent job." Grif bit back a sarcastic comment as another wave of pain rolled through him. He let his head fall back and hit a lumpy pillow. Silence dominated the conversation for a few minutes, Sarge leaving the room muttering about insolent, unthankful, lazy soldiers. Donut rushed off to make some cookies—choc chip, Grif's favourite—and Simmons remained behind. Grif stared listlessly at the roof, flexing his new, metal hand; his thoughts were all over the place. This dream felt so real.

"Grif?" Simmons ventured closer, an unusual look of worry crossing his features. Grif turned his gaze to the other man.

"This is a dream, right?" Simmons shook his head, eyes roaming his teammate's body, taking in the slightly larger limbs under the blanket. Grif sighed before shaking his head in a flurry of hair. It was a dream, dream-Simmons was wrong. He'd wake up and he'd be Frankenstein-Grif again—was Cyborg-Grif any better? He was still a freak either way. Still a worthless, lazy, good-for-nothing freak. He lifted his metal hand from under the blanket, staring at the cold, gun-metal grey digits, the black spaces between the joints, the strange glow the was emitted from his palm. It was... strangely beautiful, but the contrast was too great against his ugly self. He tarnished the workmanship of this creation.

"I tried to convince Sarge to let me be his experiment, and for you to get my... spare parts. But, Sarge wouldn't hear of it." It seemed to Grif that time in this strange dream was very much different to his reality. Simmons, from what he had learnt, had adamantly protested being changed, or was that a lie too? Grif couldn't remember; it was all getting a little fuzzy. He tore his gaze away from his hand only to look at Simmons. He didn't reply, what could he say? Grif took a shaky breath.

"Its... okay." Even his voice sounded different; raw, rough, overworked and torn. It still hurt to speak, he suppressed a cough. "I'd... like to be left alone." Simmons stiffened, nodding once before turning and leaving the small room. Grif was once more left with his thoughts, left in silence.


	3. Part III

**Part III**

He had a restless sleep, unable to find a comfortable position with his new limbs and sore, tender flesh. Terrible thoughts lingered; permeating his dreams and conscious thoughts. He couldn't, couldn't, couldn't... stop. He stared into the dark; the lights had been shut off to make it easier to sleep. It didn't change anything. His imagination ran away with him. Was it normal for a dream to last this long? to feel this way? to contain these thoughts? It was so linear, so natural, so real. But it couldn't be. He should be waking now. The sun should be burning his skin... But it wasn't. Grif let out a shuddering breath, letting these thoughts go. In the space these musings left behind entered thoughts he wasn't completely prepared to host.

If this wasn't a dream... what was it?

Grif forced himself to sit up. He felt better. Less groggy, less stiff. He wasn't in as much pain; just a dull ache that lingered around the areas where his new limbs connected, behind his eyes and in his throat. He groaned, swinging his good leg off the bed and staring at his... other one. It soon joined the other flesh-leg, pulling on his body slightly as he wasn't touching the ground. He gasped at the painful tug, gritting his teeth before setting both feet on the ground. Grif sat for a moment, rolling his shoulder in jerky movements as he grew use to the unusual weight that pulled him down, making him lopsided—even more unattractive, he didn't have the muscle strength to hold it up and, by the time he would grow use to it, it'd be like having a bad posture, hard to change. So unattractive... so ugly.

With slow, laborious movements he was up and on his feet, swaying at the new, awkward weight on his shoulders; did they do something to his head? He bit back the urge to cry out in frustration—even in his dreams life was fucked up. Grif lifted his gaze to the ominous shadows that lingered in the corners. Fear sparked in his chest for a moment before dying just as fast as it came. He stepped towards the dark shape he guessed was the door, wincing at the clank his foot made, and the soft padding of the other. He heard whirring; felt it in his chest, in his head. Panic rose—was this how Simmons felt when he first began to... move around? when he woke up? Grif took a deep shuddering breath. His lungs felt so thick... Did his heart even beat? Did he have a heart? He resisted the overwhelming urge to lift his flesh hand to his chest—he didn't want to risk learning something about his new body he wasn't ready to face (new body? Was he now considering this Dream-Grif real, a reality?).

The sound of his contrasting footsteps was all Grif allowed himself to focus on as he reached the door, the swirling shadows curling around his peripheral vision. If only he could see... he blinked, his eyes fogging for a moment before—light. Green coloured his vision, but at least he could make out the handle. He reached out with his flesh hand, opening the door with a click. Light flooded, blinding him for a moment before his... new vision shut off and everything returned to normal. Grif stood at the threshold of the room for a moment. The hallway was empty. He headed for the kitchen, voices indistinguishable until he neared. He stood at the threshold of this room too, gazing over his teammates with a hard to read expression. Grif moved further in as the conversation stopped, ignoring their eyes as he took as seat; the last empty one.

Silence.


	4. Part IV

**Part IV**

After a moment Grif glanced up from the laminated table-top. He stared at Sarge for a moment. Indecision roared through him for split second before he turned his gaze to Donut. His eyes were stony, but after another second he shifted his gaze to the last person at the table. Simmons.

"I suppose I should thank you all for saving my life, but excuse me if I'm not overjoyed." It felt strange that he was having this conversation, that he had to go through this experience twice now; albeit with different circumstances. He was more of a freak now than he was before; at least before he could hide it. Simmons dealt well with this... defection. But Grif... he only felt worse. Why would Sarge even bother to save him? Wasn't he hated enough by these people? Did Sarge only repair him so he could kill him himself, torture him a little longer with the insults? Grif didn't think he could pretend they were like water of a ducks back any longer; inside he was falling apart. If that was the only reason to be saved... He pulled himself away from those thoughts, his gaze softer as he stared at Simmons.

He knew how he must've felt now.

Was this just fates cruel trick to get him to be nicer to Simmons? If it was, he'd change, if only he would just wake up. Even if Simmons continued to call him names, continued to suck up to Sarge with promises of his death. He just wanted to go back to soaking up the sun. At least then he could change the different skin pigmentation. The scars would become less noticeable in time and maybe he'd be able to create a new life for himself when they left this hell-hole.

Sarge glared at Grif. His hands fisted on the table, but Donut reached over and put a tentative hand on his forearm. Shock broke up the anger in the CO. Simmons shifted closer to Grif, looking him straight back in the eye. The other man was searching for something. After a moment he looked dejected.

"What do you remember, Grif?" The odd, comforting tone shocked him. He stared, confused. "What do you... remember about all of us?" Grif turned his eyes to the table, searching its old surface for the answers—the right answers—to this question. This was a dream, what would happen if he said the wrong thing? Would it change?

"We never really got along... any of us." Simmons sat back in his chair, worry wrinkling around his eyes. It was an expression he hadn't seen in a long time—hell, had never seen. Grif shifted uncomfortably, eyeing Donuts' miserable look and Sarge's stony gaze that appeared... fractured. Was his relationships with these people different? Grif creased his brow in thought.

"What... that... huh? I'm wrong? Did... did something change while I was sleeping? Oh _God_, what's going on here?" Grif shuddered, head falling into his hands as he tried to pull himself back together. "It's just a dream, you'll wake up soon. You'll be on the roof of the base, and everything will be okay. You'll be Frankenstein, but not a Cyborg. It's just a dream. Just a dream. Not real." He continued to mutter to himself for a moment longer before a gentle hand startled him. It was Simmons.

"Come on, let's go talk." Sarge seemed to shoot him a disapproving look, but Simmons payed him no heed.


	5. Part V

**Part V**

They sat in their shared room; at least that much hadn't changed. Simmons had gestured for him to take as seat on one of the beds and he had done so, but had been surprised when the other marine had sat next to him. Time passed, and they were silent until Simmons spoke up, his voice soft, comforting and very different to how Grif was use to hearing him.

"Grif... Oh, where should I start...?" He paused again, eyes glued to the subject of his deep concern. "Yes, you're right; we did use to hate each other but... not anymore." Once again Simmons paused, letting Grif process the information. "I know it's a lot to take in, the new... limbs and other... changes. But, well, it's kinda hard to explain. Things changed when—" Sarge coughed from the doorway, shaking his head.

"Not now, Simmons." Simmons looked ready to protest, but Sarge shook his head, adamant on his stand point. "Grif, I know you don't much like the idea of being a Cyborg, but God damn it, try ta be a man about it boy! No more sniffling and crazy tantrums. And don't so much as try ta hatch up some diabolical scheme to enact your revenge! I'll be sleeping with one eye open from now on... Simmons! Come with me!" Simmons gave Grif a meaningful look, but slowly rose with a half-hearted 'yes, sir!' and headed out after the CO.

It was a second after they left that Donut walked in.

"Grif, here are the cookies I made you yesterday." He held them out for the other marine to take, but when he didn't move to grab them he set them down on the bed next to him. Hesitancy was written all over his body before he sat on the bed across from Grif.

"Grif... I know this is all so very confusing but... this isn't a dream. I like to think I know you well enough to know what goes on in that head of yours, so here's some food for thought: 'All that we see or seem is but a dream within a dream'." Donut sighed, standing up before taking the few steps there was between them and placing a hand on his shoulder. "Keep that in mind." He moved towards the door, stopping only at the last moment with his hand on the doorframe. Donut looked back over his shoulder and spoke one last time before leaving:

"Those are double-choc-chip cookies, by the way. Made from scratch."


	6. Part VI

**Part VI**

Grif had lingered in his room for a while longer, a weird feeling in his chest that couldn't be explained. This world, this reality was so different to his last one; his real one. He sat, contemplating, wondering about the different scenarios; or, mainly, about the differences he was now witnessing. This over-thinking had given him a headache. He sighed, moving the plate of cookies to the small bedside table and shifted so he was lying down on the small cot, and let his eyes drift close.

'All that we see or seem is but a dream within a dream.' Donut's words echoed through his sleep.

When Grif woke, he thought he was alone. Shifting so he was sitting up, the orange marine glanced around the room until his eyes landed on Sarge. He stood at the doorway, leaning on the frame and staring at Grif with a curious gaze, an almost proud gaze; it was something so foreign. Grif sat; silent, staring back at his CO with unhidden confusion. This whole dream was a pile of confusion.

"So, Grif, remember anythin'?" Grif frowned, shaking his head. Sarge sighed; "well, if that's tha case..." He crossed the room in four quick steps, an ominous look on his face as he came closer. He paused before the bed. "We've beaten the Blues. O'course, you did nuthin, you lazy son-ov-a-bitch. Simmons surprisingly rose up to tha challenge and gunned down a few, Donut was prancin' around puttin' flowers in guns, distractin' the Blue buggers while I figured out their diabolical plan B. You see, they started the battle that led to their demise, but my brains were tha ones to bring 'em down!" Grif stared a moment, blinking in exaggerated movements.

"Why are you telling me this? And if we did win... which I doubt, why are we still here? And how could a tank run me over if they were dead?" Sarge smirked, folding his arms across his chest.

"You remember somethin', don't ya?" Grif glanced away, chewing his bottom lip. Sarge huffed, shrugging before turning around and leaving. Grif sat still; Sarge was a little nicer in this dream. Could it be because he was a successful experiment? He sighed, shoulders slumping. Who was he kidding, of course it was for that reason. And the only reason Simmons was worried was because he felt guilty—for one reason or another. Grif lifted his head slightly, reaching over to the plate of cookies and picking one up. He took a bite.

"'All that we see or seem is but a dream within a dream.' Shoulda known you'd read poetry, Donut."


	7. Part VII

**Part VII**

Later, when he felt he was ready to leave the room, Grif stood. He'd eaten the entire plate of cookies, and he could almost hear Simmons muttering about him being a hog or a pig; but realised afterwards it was far more likely for Simmons to call him both. He knocked his new arm on the way out, jostling the bandages that covered where it joined his body. He muffled a cry of pain. It was okay; it was what he deserved—all this wasted material could undoubtedly done Sarge and the others much more use as another Lopez.

He wandered the base aimlessly, taking stock of the minute changes. It was far cleaner, far brighter, Donut had photos in his room where everyone was... happy. Grif felt slightly guilty as he looked over them, noting Sarge even looked happy—he large his sarcastic smirk. As he went further along he noticed one of him and Simmons. He paused. Photo-Simmons had his arm slung across Photo-Grif's shoulder. This... was definitely a dream. Grif frowned, his brow furrowing. He turned around, the movement was abrupt, and stalked out of the room. This was all some cruel joke; they must've known what he dreamed about, decided to lull him into a sense of security only too--- tear it out from under him.

Grif paused at the entrance (or exit, depending how one was to look at it) and stared up at the sun. It was quiet again; surprisingly so. The sun was warm. Grif let his eyes slide close, enjoying the feel of relaxing for a moment.

"Hey." Simmons sidled up next to, appearing a little hesitant. Grif stared at him for a moment, still very confused. They said nothing, just watched each other's movements. "Grif. What Sarge interrupted before... I was going to tell you something very important. But he thought you weren't ready for it. And then... he told me about a conversation you had just before." He paused, looking at Grif with hard eyes. Grif sighed; he knew it was too good to be true—of course they still hated him. It would never, ever change... He was just a lazy, good-for-nothing dick. "You remember before, but you just took this as a convenient way to end it all, didn't you?!" Grif paused, lifting his head and giving Simmons a wide-eyed, confused look.

"Remember what, that you all hate me, that you all threaten to kill me every day?! I'd rather forget the insults, the threats, thank you very much! This all felt like such a good dream until a moment ago... I knew it was too good to be true." Grif took a deep breath, coughing as his new lungs wheezed. He grimaced, eyes shut tight, as he bore the brunt of the pain. "I-I'm gunna just..." He cleared his throat a little, tears pricking his eyes at the remnants of soreness that lingered. "Go lie down..." Grif moved to a tree that stood fifteen or so metres away and gently lowered himself to the ground. He stretched his legs out before him, pretending for a moment that his metal leg was flesh. He ignored Simmons, who stared after him with a dropped jaw.

Slowly, he closed his eyes, and shadows rose up and curled around the corners of his mind.


	8. Part VIII

**Part VIII**

Simmons was sitting next to him, a playful smirk on his face. His fingers played over a scar on Grif's arm, an arm that was a miss-match of pigments, of different skin. Another hand—a metal hand— rested on his very much flesh knee. He moved that hand up further, sliding it over a distinct bulge in the other man's pants. Grif's breath hitched, his eyes fluttering closed. He bit into his lower lip, suppressing a moan that Simmons was adamant to be let out. The other man slid closer, thigh touching thigh, and pressed his hand harder down on Grif's erection. His breath hitched again and he let out a choked groan. He could practically feel Simmons' grin.

"Grif!" He frowned, pressing his eyes further closed. Donut was not welcome here; couldn't he tell he was busy? Simmons fingers faltered on their way up his stomach, and Grif's eyes bolted open and hand reached out for the other man's shoulder. Instead of meeting flesh, his hand went straight through. He gasped, staring at Simmons in confusion.

"What, you thought this was real? Don't make me laugh, Grif, who'd want you?" A cruel smile had fitted its way on Simmons' face, ruining any hope that he was joking. Grif wilted, shying away. He pulled his legs up to his chest, pulling himself away from a manically laughing Simmons.

"Grif, wake up! This isn't a place to be sleeping, silly." Grif choked on a sob, bolting upright and accidentally knocking Donut back. He looked around, eyes wide and chest heaving. That was the first dream he'd had while here. Hopefully, if that was what they were going to be like, it was his last. He knew he had paled, and he gulped as he looked over at Donut, who now was staring at him with wide eyes. He, too, was on the ground.

"Are you okay Grif? Did you have a bad dream? Want me to make you a hot chocolate and tuck you into bed?" Grif visibly flinched, looking away from Donut. He swallowed again, could feel his pulse slowing, his limbs stop shaking.

"I'm fine." Donut shook his head, heaving himself to his feet and stretching out his hand for Grif to take.

"I'll help you up." Grif deflated, defeated. He reached up and took the other man's hand, Donut pulled on him slightly and Grif attempted to get his stiff legs to help. Instead, he fell back and pulled Donut with him. "Oof! Oops! You okay Grif? Didn't squash you, did I?" Grif offered a smile, shaking his head.

"Just be glad it wasn't me falling on you. I'm heavier now, probably kill you." His smile was lopsided, almost a grin. Donut gave a wide smile back, his eyes twinkling.

"Was that a joke, Grif? Oooh, Griffy!" Donut poked Grif in the side, causing the other man to let out a breathless laugh. He gave a shrug.

"Suppose it was." Slowly they made their laborious way to their feet, a strange, new companionable silence surrounding them. "Donut... can I talk to you?" Donut paused, giving Grif a serious look.

"Of course you can. You can always talk to me, Grif." Grif nodded, gesturing for Donut to follow him behind the base. They walked quietly, Donut watching Grif lumber and limp, very much unused to the new weight and the new mechanisms. They stopped under the shadow. Grif turned to face Donut, giving him a nervous, insecure look.

"Donut... When I woke up after being hit by the tank, I was actually—Oh fuck, this sounds stupid..." Grif paused, dragging his flesh hand down his face and groaning. "I was sleeping. On the roof of the base. You were all following one of Sarge's harebrained schemes and he saw fit to leave me behind. Probably hoping the Blues would launch a secret attack and kill me. I took this as the opportunity to sleep. This is a dream. None of this is real." Donut nodded slowly. He gave Grif a small smile.

"If it's a dream, how come you haven't woken up yet? And how come you can feel pain? Hm? I may not be the smartest person out there, but maybe this happened for a reason. Maybe you should just accept it as reality, _a_ reality." Donut paused, grinning again. "I think that was the most you've ever spoken to me in one go. Come on, I'll make you a hot chocolate. Simmons has been muttering under his breath for a while about something, so maybe you can sit and listen to him for a while."

"You don't think I'm crazy? Oh God, who am I kidding, you're crazy as well, of course you're not going to judge me as weird! And I don't want to talk to kiss-ass-Simmons! He probably just wants to bitch to me about leaving the empty tray in our room." Donut giggled, shaking his head with a silly smile.

"Grif! Simmons is a nice young man, you should be happy to have him as a—" Donut cough, wide eyed for a moment before running into the base in a fit of giggles. Grif frowned, staring after him with a slack jaw.

"Huh. At least some things seem to be the same..."

"Grif! Get yer lazy ass inside! We're havin' a team meetin'!" Grif sighed, shoulders slumping, before dejectedly following his CO's orders.


	9. Part IX

**Part IX**

Grif sighed as he sat down roughly in the last available chair, hearing it groan beneath his weight he sighed again. It held, and Grif gave Sarge a bored look. One he thankfully didn't notice. Donut smacked Grif in the thigh to scold him, but only managed to hurt himself. He bit back a cry, and Grif cast him an apologetic glance. Simmons, all the while, sat staring at the orange Private.

"Alright! Ah gave ya a few days a rest Grif, ta get back on yer feet. Don't think that this'll be a reoccurrin' thing now! So, onta business. We're gunna have some team buildin' exercises. Tha three ayou need to "reconnect", so ta speak." He paused, pacing back and forth before his three Privates and gesturing widely. Sarge stopped, pointing harshly at Grif. "Ya need ta learn everythin' there is ta kno' 'bout these two men. Ah know ah don't usually care much fer ya, Grif, but Simmons here seems ta see somethin' in yer that ah don't. And ah rather like tha boy, so ya bettah do as he says!" Sarge paced again, rubbing his stubbled chin in thought, brow creased. He stopped, looking back over them with a pointed look.

"What are ya all still doin' here?! Get outta my sight!"

Outside the kitchen, Simmons stopped Grif. He took a deep breath.

"I want to apologise about before. I shouldn't have accused you of something I knew you'd never do... I... I think we should finally have this conversation." Grif slowly nodded, following Simmons to their shared room. Once more, like the first attempt of this talk, they sat next to each other. This time Grif managed to not feel weird about it; like he was growing use to it or, if it were possible, like it felt... natural. They sat in a comfortable silence, Grif staring at the joints on his new hand, Simmons watching the orange Privates face for clues. He sighed, dejected.

"Grif—"

"I think I should start." Simmons, shocked, nodded once. "I talked to Donut before. I told him that, basically, I fell asleep on the roof of the base and woke up here. There, in that... _world_, I'm with your parts and you're the cyborg." Grif finally looked up. "We don't get along at all, never have, probably never will. Here, everything's different. Sarge hasn't threatened me once, Donut's been... bearable and you... you've tried to have two conversations with me in the past two days. That's more than what we usually have in one week." Grif paused, chewing his lip as he watched Simmons closely. He seemed... saddened. Not like Grif thought he would look. "You don't think I'm crazy? Donut didn't think I was nuts either." He sighed, plucking at his loose track pants.

"It makes sense. You've been acting strange ever since the... operation. Grif, here, in this... erm... _world_, we were---are, uh... lovers." Grif stared at Simmons for a moment, blinking slow. He looked away, staring at the opposite wall. Simmons grimaced, looking at the floor. "I know... it probably disturbs, no, disgust you but—"

"Really? We're... lovers?" Grif's tone caused Simmons to start; it wasn't what he expected... instead it was, well, happy. He looked up at the other man, nodding.

"Yes Grif, I wouldn't lie about something like this." Grif's smile was sad. No, Simmons wouldn't lie about something like this, that was for sure. He wouldn't do something so callous. Grif's smile faltered as he a thought struck him.

"Simmons... this has got to be the most perfect fantasy ever. That's... that's what this is. For me it's... it's my wishes all thrown together! I've wanted Sarge to stop threatening me, I never wanted you to have to sacrifice your humanity when you didn't want to, Donut—hell, Donut's the same and, you and me..." Grif sighed, looking at Simmons closely. "We're together." Simmons smiled.

"I only wished you knew how we got together. It'd probably cure you of current thoughts."

"Oh yeah? And what thoughts are those?"

"The ones where you think I don't _really_ love you, but that this is all a dream. Because it isn't, you know. All of this was still here before you came. We were still together before you got the chance to experience this."

"Yeh... well, whatever the case may be, Simmons, I don't exactly want to go home anytime soon."


	10. Part X

**Part X**

The next morning saw Grif walking aimlessly near the Canyon wall behind their base. He was lost in thought; every inch of it turbulent and conflicting. Despite the calm, almost happy yesterday, all the orange Private could think about was how this wasn't his world. He had come to terms with the fact that this wasn't a dream, he had come to terms with the fact that he didn't want to leave but... what was happening back... home? He sighed, lifting his head to stare up at the unchanging blue sky. Was the Grif who use to be here, there? Or did he simply disappear?

Grif knew that he would have to leave eventually. This place was not where he belonged. He was a foreigner, an outsider. He would allow himself to bask in something that he dreamed of, but not for too long. Stretching his mechanical fingers, he nodded once. He would find a way to go back, but not before he experienced something that... that called to him. Something he would never, ever get the chance to have after he went home.

Grif paused in his pacing. How could he get back? Did he have a time limit here? Was there something he had to do before he could go home? He shook his head, heading back towards the base. Today he would not dwell on it.

"Heya Griffy." Donut greeted him as he walked into the kitchen. He wore a silly grin, all teeth. He was wearing a pink apron, oven mitts on his hands before waving once and bending over to pull a tray out of the oven. "Baked a cake, thought we could celebrate the beau-tiful morning! Oooh, it smeeeells delish!" Humming, the bubbly man set the cake tray down on the bench. "Oh Grif, you look grumpy. What's wrong?"

Grif shrugged: "Just thinking, Donut."

"You should stop, thinking isn't good for you, Grif. Leave it to Simmons. That's what I always do. He seems to come up with appropriate answers to important questions. Like, what flavour should I make my cakes, or lamb or beef for a roast! Or, oooh, even what colour shirts I should buy in the catalogue!" Grif shook his head, settling for ignoring Donut. He pulled out a chair and sat down, staring at the laminate surface. Hm, maybe there was something he had to do... something... he had to say. He looked up, turning his head to look over his shoulder as Simmons walked in.

"Hey, Grif. Why you up so early? Thought you would've slept in a little longer." Grif smiled, watching Simmons take a seat next to him.

"He's been thinking! I told him he should stop, but I think he was ignoring me because he went straight back to it! Luckily you came in, otherwise his brain might've melted!" Donut giggled, turning back to his cooling cake. He slid it out of the tray, setting it down on a plate. "No touching Grif! It needs to cool a little longer, then I'll cut you a piece."

"Okay Donut, whatever you say Donut..." Grif shrugged, smirking lightly to himself as the pink Private skipped from the room. He turned to Simmons, giving him a small smile. "Simmons, I... was wondering if... you'd tell me that story now. About how we got together?" Simmons smiled, nodding.

"Of course, come with me. I'll tell you in our room."

Later, the two were laying on the floor in a cocoon of blankets and pillows. Simmons had his arm wrapped around Grif, and the orange Private had his head on his chest. They were quiet; but not sullen. Grif sported a small, content smile, while Simmons had his eyes closed and a calm look sprawled across his face.

"You were right."

"Hm?"

"It would erase my fears of your feelings for me. But I also didn't realise..."

"Didn't realise what?"

Grif shifted, looking down at Simmons' face. He grinned cheekily.

"How horny it would make me feel..." Slowly, he bent his head down, eyes glued to Simmons' face for any hint of hesitancy. Nothing.

He pressed their lips together, eyes slipping shut, Simmons' arms wrapping around Grif's body and dragging him closer.

He would not leave without trying this.


	11. Part XI

**Part XI**

Grif revelled in the feel of Simmons' lips against his. They were unbelievably soft; they lacked what he would've called 'man texture'. But instead of dwelling on it, Grif only kissed him harder—dragging his tongue along Simmons' lower lip, tasting the man bellow him who responded by opening his mouth. They kissed leisurely for a moment, Grif's hand sliding down Simmons' chest and rubbing up his sides while similar hands that were wrapped around his shoulders rubbed down his spine. He was in the arms of a man he had lusted after, dreamed about... loved...

Simmons moaned into Grif's mouth, pushing the other soldier onto his back. He looked down at the ruffled man, smirking lightly. They stared at each other for a moment, a silent question hanging between them.

"Simmons... I want you to... um..." Simmons smiled; a soft, endearing smile. Grif blushed, turning his gaze away.

"Want me too..." Simmons pressed, leaning down to let his breath ghost over Grif's neck. "What do you want me to do?"

It was strange, to Grif, to have Simmons be this forward. He shifted, accidently rubbing his crotch up into the other man, eliciting a drawn out groan from the both of them. Grif panted, flesh fingers digging into Simmons' hip, his cyborg arm limp against his side—afraid to use it, afraid it would hurt the man above him. He chewed his lip, a nervous habit.

"I want you to... ma—make love... to me..." His voice became a whisper, a blush rising on his cheeks again in embarrassment. Simmons chuckled, ignoring Grif's nervous tittering, and pressed his lips to the trembling neck bellow him.

Grif was loathe to pull himself from the tangle of limbs. He was warm, he was comfortable, but he knew he couldn't stand down on the ground while his stomach was roaring the way it was. He blushed as he tugged the blanket off himself, exposing Simmons pale shoulder. A shoulder with a very visible bite mark... Grif shook his head, managing to stand.

It was strange to think that two days ago—or maybe it was three—he was stumbling around with barely a clue how to use this new limbs, yet now, here he was, only occasionally tripping. It was also strange to think that, over the last few days, he'd been thinking less and less about--- well, certain things.

Grif smiled; cheerful, happy, content. They were the best emotions he'd felt in a long while. But then reality hit him; he had to get back home. He sighed, pulling open a draw in the kitchen and taking out a notepad and pen. Now, to brainstorm.

He tapped the pen on the table, chewing his lip in thought. Hm, well, having sex didn't send him back... he dotted it down and then put a cross next to it. Maybe he had to knock himself over the head... that joined the last note. He spent the next half hour like this, taking notes, adding annotations, crossing out, adding in, ticking, putting a question mark next to. He still wasn't sure, but in the end Grif had a good list of what he should try. Just as he was leaning back in his chair with the intention of stretching, Simmons walked in.

"Hey." Grif smiled awkwardly, his heart skipping a beat. Simmons smiled back, walking up behind Grif and peering over his shoulder.

"What's this?"

"Um... a list of possible ways to get back?" Simmons stiffened, picking up the note pad and skimming over the words. He dropped it onto the table, walking stiff-backed over to the fridge. Grif watched him, unsure, nervous; his eyes wide.

"You had sex with me." Grif nodded, even thought Simmons couldn't see. The man stared into the fridge, shoulders straight and rigid. "Just so you could get back _home_." Simmons turned, eyes flashing with a dangerous light. He stalked over to Grif, leaning down close to his face, one hand on the table, the other on the back of the chair. "What the _fuck_ is wrong with you?!" Grif flinched, looking away. "Don't! Don't you look away from me, Grif!" Simmons took a deep shuddering breath.

"I'm not... your Grif! I want to go home, even if I can't have you back there. Here... here I feel like an outsider! Like you're just accepting me so you can feel like you've got your fuck buddy back! Sure, I had sex with you. So what? Is it so wrong of me to want to try something I'd probably never get the change to fucking have again?" Grif took a gulp of air, trying to calm his fraying nerves and furiously beating heart. He took another gulp, fighting back angry tears, only to find he could not take another breath. He panicked, eyes going wide, hand flush against his chest. He tried again, gasping, but nothing would reach his lungs. Simmons, shocked, left the room to find Sarge at break-neck speed. Grif tried and tried, alternating between using his nose and mouth, but still could not breath. He stood up, tripping as he went to reach for the tap, and landed painfully on the ground.

Black dots formed before his eyes and, before he knew it, he was unconscious.


	12. Part XII

**Part XII **

Grif blinked; bright, white light pouring into his eyes and blinding him momentarily. He groaned. Why did he let himself yell at Simmons Like that? It wasn't worth it, he knew now he was likely to have ruined his time here... He blinked again, trying to clear his eyes and get them working. Hm, his skin felt pleasantly warm... if not a little sore. Grif shifted, his limbs tingling, his--- He sat up quickly, gasping and heart pounding.

His arm--- his leg! Grif groaned, planting his face into his two very fleshy palms and rubbing his eyes vigorously. Holy fucking shit, he was back home. That was... easier than he thought it would be. He slumped, thinking back over the last moments with Simmons—that Simmons, not his Simmons. A fight, choking on air and falling unconscious. Was it the almost dying part, or the yelling that he wanted to go home? He shook his head.

"Suppose it doesn't really matter... Way to go to ruin it though, jackass." Slowly Grif stood, making his way down from the roof of the base and back into it. It was still silent, they obviously weren't back yet. He sighed, lugging himself into the lounge room and plonking himself down on the couch. He sure was sighing a lot. Grif slumped back into the couch, letting his head roll back and eyes stare listlessly at the ceiling. Not much to do. Wasn't there some chore Sarge wanted him to do while they were gone? Hm. Maybe that was just his imagination.

A few hours later Sarge came rumbling in with Donut and Sarge behind him.

"Pity ya weren't with us, Grif. Coulda used yer as a distraction—maybe ya woulda died in the progress. Woulda been reaaal satisfying!" Grif sighed, acknowledging the man with a raised eyebrow. "But then again, ya woulda jus' held us back! You an' yer lazy ways, boy. Simmons! Clean ma shotgun and re-load it fer me. Ah wanna teach this boy a lesson latah!" Simmons straightened, calling out his duitiful 'Yes, Sir!' before collecting the shotgun and scuttling off. Donut stayed behind after Sarge left for the kitchen.

"Grif... are you okay? I thought you'd be gone longer..." Grif sat up straight, turning to look at Donut with a wide-eyed expression. Donut gulped, wringing his hands before him in a nervous action. "Well, actually, forget I said that... Would you like a hot chocolate? You look a little pale.." He turned around and swiftly left, but not before throwing a curious, if not unsure, glance over his shoulder.

Grif stared after him, mouth agape. Simmons returned, rolling his eyes at his orange teammate.

"Grif, did you clean your side of the room while we were gone? It's getting a bit ridiculous... But knowing you, you probably just left it and went to sleep on the roof again. Maybe one of these days I should take Sarge up on one of his offers to kill you..." Simmons sighed, sitting down on a lounge chair. He rubbed at his temples, ignoring Griff completely who now stared at him. Grif paled. All he could think about... He gulped, closing his eyes and muttering to himself.

"Don't be stupid, don't be stupid... Simmons doesn't think of you that way here. Never has, never will. That's the way it is here..." He shifted, looking away from Simmons and staring at the wall. They didn't have photos here. They weren't happy unless he was in pain, or dying, or not in the room, or sleeping, or actually doing work—they weren't happy, ever, to be honest. Even when one of those things occurred... they still hated him. They still were unhappy. Grif was still unhappy. He flinched.

Grif stood up, an abrupt motion that caught Simmons off guard.

"Where you going, haven't you slept enough today?" Simmons sounded bitter, his eyes slightly narrowed as they followed Grif's rigid back. "Don't tell me you're pissy. Are poor Griffy's feelings hurt?" Grif slammed the door behind him.


	13. Part XIII

**Part XIII**

Grif shuddered, taking a deep breath as if to calm himself. It didn't work. His hands shook, flying up to his copper hair to pull on the messy strands. He growled, swinging out and punching the wall. Grif whimpered, holding his—Simmons—hand up to his chest, staring at the angry red scratches and broken knuckles. He let out a shuttering breath. Now he was in physical pain as well as emotional pain. Great. His eyes began to tear up, but he shook his head and collapsed against the wall, pulling his knees up to his chest and holding his broken hand close.

This was fine, this was normal. He could deal with Simmons' insults, Sarge's threats. Everything was--- Donut! That _bastard_. Grif growled, anger boiling in his chest again, rising up and threatening to spill over but—he calmed himself, breathing deeply and closing his eyes and thinking back. Back onto Simmons' smile. The way his skin felt beneath his hands, how his lips felt on his. He felt his eyes tear up again. At least now his hand was only throbbing; as long as he didn't move it, or touch it, or think about it. He grit his teeth.

Oh God, he couldn't stop the tears. Gritting his teeth harder, Grif squeezed his eyes shut and willed them away, but he couldn't stop the broken sobs that tore their way out of his throat. He sobbed, tears falling from his eyes in rapid concession. Those photos, oh how he wished he could have shared _those_ memories with these people, instead of the ones where Sarge was always hitting him, threatening him, where Simmons was calling him names—where he was calling Simmons names back so he could appear stronger, like they didn't hurt. Oh _God_, they hurt. His broken, hoarse crying continued; harder, ricocheting in his chest and reverberating in his lungs and in his head. He—he couldn't take it any longer. All the pain poured out, all the insecurities about his worth, all the insecurities about his appearance; the entire vulnerable feeling he carried with him _everywhere_.

He choked on his tears as a knock startled him from his thoughts.

Donut's muffled voice came through: "Can I come in, Grif?" Grif hurriedly rubbed his eyes with his good hand, accidentally jostling the other and crying out, almost causing the tears to start again. He bit his lip, shifting away from the door so it wouldn't hit him.

"Y-yeh, Donut... You c-can c-come in." Donut wasted no time and opened the door. He looked down at Grif, closing the door behind him and kneeling before the broken form. The pink soldier looked close to crying himself when he noticed the state of his teammate—friend?

"Grif? Oh, I'm so sorry... I-I just wanted to help." Grif shifted away from him slightly. He gave him a weak glare.

"So you did that to me? You sent me over there?" Donut nodded, looking guilty.

"I wanted to... make you happy. You... I thought you'd stay there longer but—"

"I didn't. I... I'm glad, that, well, you did that for me though." Donut looked up at Grif, shocked.

"R-really? So... I didn't do the wrong thing?"

"Well... I wouldn't say that but—Ow! Hey, watch it!" Donut pulled back, pale and wide-eyed, before realising Grif's hand was bleeding.

"Oh! How—No, I don't want to know. Look, here, come with me. I'll clean it up for you."

"Thanks Donut. For everything."


End file.
